


Beautiful, Dirty, Rich

by whisperedwords



Category: Glee
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedwords/pseuds/whisperedwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of completely unrelated Sebastian/Santana drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Midnight Memories

Sebastian Smythe doesn’t  _do_  feelings, or emotions, or commitment. He doesn’t—he’s never been with the same person, guy  _or_  girl, twice in a row, and he certainly doesn’t go for relationships.

That being said, he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing with Santana Lopez wrapped around his waist, mumbling stuff in his ear that they’re both too drunk to interpret. Because she’s a lesbian—at least that’s what she’s told him—and he’s never really been interested in her before now, right? He shakes the thoughts from his head and, in the process, pulls Santana flush to him, so that they’re pressed against each other against the wall of the tiny apartment party they both somehow ended up at.

"It’s almost midnight," she slurs, her hands running from the collar of his shirt down above his hips. He chuckles and presses his lips to the base of her neck.

"Yeah," Sebastian muses, feeling her arching closer to his body. Absentmindedly, he remembers that it’s  _New Year’s Eve_ , and he’s holding Santana Lopez in a way that’s too friendly, too interested, waiting for the ball to drop on the small TV. He can’t bring himself to shift away from her, though. Whatever. It’s not like it’s a thing.

Except that it kind of is, because he remembers kissing her at his best friend’s Christmas party vividly, which was a few days ago, and he remembers being in the exact same place with her—a little bit drunk, a little bit desperate, and definitely stressed. And then he remembers fucking her in the guest bedroom when everyone was exchanging gifts because he had "lost his keys" and needed to find them, and she tagged along because she "didn’t know anyone there". Which was true—she was in a completely different social circle from him. She helped him find a climax, which he kindly returned, and then slipped out before anyone saw them together. (He stayed for the rest of the party, but couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to her nails digging into his skin.)

And then there was that other time, too, where he faked being her boyfriend so she wouldn’t get hit on by "gross people" (what she called the Scandals regulars) when she went out to drink. He remembers his hand settled on her waist the whole night, even when the club had cleared out, and the way she let him do it. The way she held his hand every so often to make sure he was watching for creeps and perverts (and maybe to bring his attention back to her for just a second). 

And it hits him, suddenly, that  _fuck_ , this is a thing, isn’t it? He opens his mouth to tell her so, but instead she’s stuck her tongue in it, and he decides to let it go this once. He kisses her back and swings them around so she’s up against the wall, and thinks ”next time, next time, next time,”. He swears.

The ball drops, and he kisses her, and she pulls back with something in her eyes that looks like lust mixed with something else. She grins up at him.

"Happy New Year,” she murmurs. He flashes a smile back at her.

"Let’s get outta here," he says instead, and she agrees, her fingers snaking around his own.

(Later on, in his bed, she looks him straight in the eyes and asks him if they’re a thing.

"Only if you want us to be,” he answers, and his heart pounds as her lips purse. He wants them to be a thing.

"I’ll sleep on it.” She muses, and he crawls on top of her. They sleep on it.)


	2. Lonely Hearts Club

It’s late when she gets to the bar. She had just screamed her lungs out at her girlfriend—well, ex-girlfriend, now—and was currently too tired to care about anything but a whiskey and loud, blaring music to drown out her thoughts. She only gets one. (Silence may be deafening, but her drink is stronger.)

Someone sits down next to her at the bar, but she ignores it, continuing to stare at her glass in hopes of finding a few answers. It doesn’t strike her as odd that she’s one of a handful of people still drinking on a Thursday night. It doesn’t make her think when the bartender raises an eyebrow when she asks for another. What does make her think, though, is the voice of the person beside her, who just ordered the same thing. The familiar smoothness that made her insides curl had to belong to only one person.

"Sebastian Smythe." She says loudly, turning to face him in the seat next to her. His face dawns in recognition, followed quickly by the trademark smirk she had learned to hate so well when they were still in school.

"Santana Lopez," He answers in acknowledgement, arms crossing out of habit. "Funny seeing you here."

"I could say the same to you, Smythey." She replies, and her arms cross too—maybe out of instinct, maybe out of discomfort. She wouldn’t admit to either. "I figured you’d be out in the real world now, sucking some Oscar winner’s dick for money. What happened, change of plans?" Her voice is sweet and sharp, and he rolls his eyes.

"I don’t know," He sneers, "Whatever happened to your blonde bimbo of a girlfriend? Still riding on her coattails? Nice to know things haven’t changed much." With a sip of his drink, he turns away slightly. His words ring in her ears, and she grips the bar tightly, anger coursing through her veins and reminding her why she hated him in the first place.

"Fuck you." She spits. Then, for effect: "She and I are done, if that’s what you’re asking."

"It’s not, but congratulations on checking out of the mental hospital." He grumbles into his glass. She smirks at him, obviously pleased with herself for irritating him. His eyes dart over to her. "At least I’m not the one stuck in this shithole of a town. You—weren’t you gonna do something with your life?"

"Weren’t you going to do something with  _yours_?” She counters. Despite her exterior, though, the fear bubbles up inside of her again, strangling her voice in her throat. “I’m here because I choose to be here.”

"That’s—" He pauses for a moment, trying to find words. "That’s fucking ridiculous.  _Nobody_  chooses to live here, in this waste of a town. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go. It’s a cage. You are so full of shit, Lopez.” He puts his drink down and turns back to her. “Why are you really here? Did you fall flat on your face on Broadway?” His voice is the same as she remembered it to be—enthralling and infuriating at the same time, driving her up the wall from irritation.  _Why does he care?_

"No, Bitchlet, I already told you. I chose to be here. I didn’t want to be anywhere else." She thinks of Brittany, and why she even stayed in the first place. She had always chalked it up to not being able to get off the ground, but really—really, it was her girlfriend anchoring her to Lima. She cringes.

"Didn’t?" He asks after a moment. "What about now?" This time his voice is softer.  _Why does he care_  keeps spinning around in her mind, but he’s better than talking to a therapist, and having the sympathy of another alpha bitch would only help her. She takes another drink.

"I wanna get out of here. I just…I don’t know if I can." There it is. "I stayed behind for Britt, but…it fell apart." That’s all she thinks she’s going to say to him about the subject. Apparently, though, he has different feelings.

"As much as this hurts to say, I think we’re in the same boat here." He doesn’t elaborate, but the smile on his face says it all, and she feels—she doesn’t know what she feels. Sympathetic? Maybe. Curious? More than she’d like to admit. They sit in silence for a while, nursing their whiskey, but she breaks it eventually.

"Out of all the losers we went to school with…" She hums, and he chuckles. "How did we get left behind?"

"I don’t know," He admits. "But I hate it. I want to start over. Fuck everybody else. I just want to  _be_  something. You know?”

"Yeah, I know." She answers tiredly. "A reset button would be nice." He leans closer to her, half a smile stretching across his face, and she feels something inside her going off. Something warning her that nothing good is going to happen next.

"What do you say we hit that button?" He murmurs, raising his glass. "Get out of this dump. Do whatever we wanted to in the first place."

It might be the alcohol, but the idea sounds amazing to her. She grins at him, clinking her glass with his own. “Let’s do it. Cheers, to getting the fuck out of the middle of nowhere.” They chuckle and drink to it, shaking their heads in good humor. Silence closes in between them again, but this time it’s stifling. She looks him in the eyes, and he nods imperceptibly. “Let’s start here…” Her voice trails off, and he needs no further invitation, closing the space between them and pressing his lips to hers urgently. She lets him, carding her fingers through his hair and forgetting about Brittany back at home, forgetting how much she hated him and instead focusing on  _new new new_ and the feeling of his lips biting her own. She kisses him angrily. Angry, maybe, because she’s doing this—kissing him—instead of her girlfriend, or maybe because she wasted years sitting around and doing nothing because she didn’t want to be alone. This was new. His lips give her liberation, she realizes, from what she had built around herself long ago. She refuses to stay in this shithole of a town. Sebastian is right. God, he is  _so_  right. With a grunt, she pulls away from him, her eyes dark and glazed over with desire.

"Let’s get out of here." He says, voice husky. She grins. They slip out into the night, furious and hungry, and she realizes when it’s all over that she had made the wrong choice. She refuses to settle. No more pity or sad love. The only love she needs, she thinks, is the love of fame and success.

She wakes up next to Sebastian the next morning, head aching slightly, and realizes that he’s snared her in his arms. “You’re stuck with me.” He murmurs when she moves to slip out of his grasp. “Sorry, princess, but you need someone to keep you from doing Blondie all over again.”

She has half a mind to correct him that ‘Blondie’ is really Brittany.

She ignores it instead.


	3. "Fuck you and your perfect hair."

Sebastian has Santana pressed up against the door before they can turn the lights of her apartment on. His lips hungrily mouth at the base of her neck, fingers dragging the straps of her dress down her shoulders and revealing more and more skin. She can only breathe, her eyes shut tight and body melted against his own.

"S-oh god,  _Seb_ ,” Santana gasps as his teeth sink into her skin ever-so-slightly. He hums in acknowledgement but continues to suck at her skin. “We—we aren’t even going to get to the bedroom if you—” She’s cut off as he pulls away abruptly and lifts her up around his waist. She squeals, and he grins devilishly. They stumble through the doorway of Santana’s room, and Sebastian easily tosses her onto the bed, where she bounces onto her back and shimmies her dress down below her thighs. He smiles devilishly at her, eyes glinting in the low light.

"You’re so beautiful," He mumbles, crawling on top of her and nibbling at her ear tenderly. Santana shudders underneath him. Without a word, he kisses down to the valley between her breasts and slips his hands underneath her to unhook the lace between them. Slowly, he pulls the bra off, and then his lips move lower, now beneath her ribcage and dragging lightly against her hot skin. Her eyes flutter closed. He hums a little, the noise vibrating against her skin and sending a chill up her spine. A little bit quicker this time, he kisses back up her body, his hands resting at her waist easily. This time, Sebastian stops at her shoulder—his tongue darts out, drifting lazily to her jaw and collarbone. " _Love you so much,_ " He breathes, and she whimpers his name as he presses close to her. She can feel his cock pressing against her thigh, and almost forgets how to breathe when she sees his glowing smile above her.

"Let’s slow this down," She manages, and he chuckles softly, removing his pants.

"How slow are we talking?" He responds, his head moving closer to hers. "Like this?" He inches forward, taking his time, letting his breath wash against her lips but refusing to come together. "Or like  _this_?” And he closes the distance between them, his lips barely brushing her own. He holds himself there, their lips touching only slightly, and Santana mewls against her will. He breaks into a smile and pulls back ever-so-slightly, dragging out the intensity that would hit them both once they gave up this game.

"Slow…." She breathes, scraping her fingernails down his bare back. He shudders at the touch, lips parting slightly, and she feels the wetness between her legs spreading. "You’re so needy,  _christ_ , just want to get fucked—” Santana cuts herself off. His head has fallen forward, hair brushing against her chest. Her hand knots itself in his hair as he begins to kiss at the patch of skin between her breasts again. Her breath comes to her in a stutter. "Oh, god," She gasps, and the feeling of his teeth against her skin lets her know that he's got a toothy smirk pressed up against her. Her fingers tighten in his hair, pulling it harshly. A hiss escapes him, and she shushes him softly, putting a finger to her lips before sucking on it and watching as he goes silent. His hair is still perfect, to her dismay—the wirey bronze is still curled to his benefit, her fingers only making him more infuriatingly stunning. “Fuck you,” She growls, and his attempt to protest is stopped when she crushes her lips to his, carding her fingers through it messily and pulling him closer. He obliges more than willingly, prying her lips open with his own and searching, grasping at her face as though she’s not moving fast enough. She gasps when they part briefly, for survival only, and when Sebastian goes back in, she moans, hands splayed across his lower back and digging into his tight muscles. “Fuck you and your fucking hair,  _asshole_ ,” She pants, and he snorts, capturing her lips for another fiery kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a thing for sebastian and santana tormenting each other by going really slowly. it's evil and intimate and i cant even discuss how much i need there to be more fic about them not getting instant gratification.


End file.
